Memories Mined Into Song
by Forged Obsidian
Summary: While staying in Rivendell, Thorin finds a harp.


**Memories Mined Into Song**

**Thorin plays the harp. He has a bit of a break down. So, fun fluffy stuff. Kinda. Ish. I really don't know.**

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The air was quiet, the strange music of Rivendell seeming to quiet for the night. The stillness was unnerving, but was a pleasant change to warg howls and flying arrows. The Company was sleeping, opting to take their rest on a balcony together, rather that being separated into different rooms. The fire they had kindled had long since gone out, little green flecks of the broccoli Bifur had been trying to cook scattered around the edge of the fire pit. Snores and rustling sounds were prominent, creating a music of its own.

Bilbo, who had stayed up long into the night, talking to the elves of all things, had been carried and laid to sleep at the edge of the company's pile. The hobbit had been bobbing his head with tiredness some hours beforehand. The change from being chased for their lives by a group of orcs to sleeping in _Rivendell_ of all places had tired him out.

Thorin was sleeping near the group, leaning his back against a small pillar. While it may have been thought more comfortable to sleep here than on the road, it was not the case. The stone that the pillar and floor was crafted out of sang a strange song, one of peace, silence. The road stones were weary, but their song was strong, not wispy. They sang of pounding feet, songs, tales told by the light of merry fires. They told of winters, springs. Battles. Wonderful meetings and weary partings. Elven stone was cold, and still, echoing a timelessness that the king-in-exile found unnerving. Still, he was not one to pass up the chance for sleep.

Dreams, however, often have little regard for the minds of the weary.

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_Screams, battle cries, metal scraping off metal._

_Azog had disappeared, dragged back into Moria, his screams of pain and anger only mingling with the busy noise of battle._

_The initial battle rage had left him cool, calm. Reacting, attacking, slipping past the clumsy arcs of orc blades. Thorin tore through armor, broke horribly forged swords, knocked heads from necks. Blood splattered his face._

_He did not stop to wipe it off._

_He saw a welcome sight, a golden head swinging back and forth, rocking in time with the rhythm of an axe held by hands that were too young to forge, let alone kill._

_Brother._

_He was not so far away, but the area was thick with heaving bodies, fighting for something, something more important than a home. All the dwarven warriors knew that Moria would not be theirs, that they had been led by a mad king into a mad battle. Now they fought for life, for the ones who were gone too soon from this world. _

_Ducking, hacking, Thorin tried to make his way to his brother, but before he could get there, the orc did. _

_Thorin saw the whole thing, and could do nothing to stop it. _

_The creature, smaller than most, jumped on his brother's back, a serrated knife whipping around to impale itself in the younger dwarf's chest. Thorin screamed, and broke._

_The orc twisted its shoulders, sending the knife to tear through mail, flesh, life. _

_The creature jumped off the frozen body of the young dwarf, running back into the thick of the battle._

_Thorin couldn't move, his body was frozen, his mind was a wasteland. It was unable to process anything. His eyes, though, saw everything._

_His brother, shocked eyes the same frozen, cold blue, met those of his brother. The younger dwarf fell slowly to his knees, still looking at his brother._

_His big brother, the one who was supposed to take care of him, protect him, make it all better._

_The life bled out of his eyes, and the young dwarf fell to his side._

_Why didn't Thorin move? Find the thing that had taken his brother from him?_

_His stomach was molten lead, his feet rocks. Everything - will, strength, hope - seeped out of his body. His hands were shaking, he dropped his sword. _

_And still he did not move. He stared at the body of his brother. An orc, seeing an immobile dwarf, stepped over, and brought a mace down on Thorin's head._

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Thorin jerked awake, his breathing elevated. Sleeping for years on the road had ingrained silence to his waking. If something was nearby, best to not alert it to your presence. He quickly got up, knowing that he had to get away from the Company, they would not see him like this.

His hands were shaking, and there was a something in his chest that kept him from breathing right. Air wheezed past clenched teeth, nails dug into palms.

He tried to not run away from the balcony, instead letting his strong legs walk quickly from the sleeping pile. He turned a few corners past the strange elf hallways, knowing that he would be able to find his way back. Dwarves never got lost when they were around stone, no matter the strange song.

He eventually found a quiet place, away from where curious eyes could see. A small room, filled with various odds and ends. There was no door. The stone walls still sung a strange song.

He walked on shaky legs to the center of the room, his boots stirring up small wisps of dust. Thorin, needing something to take his mind off blood and shaky hands and chunky breathing, looked around the room. Ice blue eyes flicked through corners, searching for anything, really.

His eyes met a harp.

It was not particularly impressive. The string was still in good condition, strung correctly, though judging by the dust collecting on the frame it had not been played for a while. The white wood had turned gray in some places, where sunlight had hit it over the years of being stored in the same room. It was not overly large, only coming up to Thorin's shoulders. At the worst, it would only be out of tune.

Deciding that the harp would be a proper distraction, Thorin walked over on still shaking legs. He began to brush dust off the instrument, and while his hands were more accustomed to forge work and weapons, his fingers were gentle, carefully swiping at the little carvings inlaid into the curved top of the harp. The work took his mind off the dream.

However, he was done all too soon. Standing back to get a good look at his handiwork, Thorin was satisfied with the results. The harp, while not in the best condition, was now dust free and glowing white in what little moon-and-starlight that jumped through the small window in the wall across from the door.

There was still one problem, though. It was more than likely out of tune. Stringed instruments needed care, and if left alone for too long in changing weather, their strings could become too tight or loose. Walking to the back of the harp, Thorin sat down and pulled it onto his shoulder. Plucking at one string, he tightened it accordingly. And so he went along, turning the tuning pins and allowing the flat of his hands to feel the shaking strings.

It had been years since he had played anything. He sang, sometimes, but those moments were rare. The last time he had touched a musical instrument was when he had still been living in Erebor. The harp there had been grander than this one, with silver lining the dark wooden frame. This harp, though, had a beauty of its own. The simple design was clever, and the small images inlaid into the neck told a story. Absentmindedly, the tips of his fingers flicked the strings.

The sound was light, feathery, bringing a small waterfall to mind. Thorin, memories coming back to him as the muscle memory of his hands remembered the feel of string instead of sword, began to pick out a tune. It was not light, wandering aimlessly through the air. It was strong, with a strangely deep undertone that spoke of deep earth and warm halls, memories of warmth and food, and cheer. Then, without warning, the playing became disjointed, his two hands never quite lining up, before the melody settled down to a drawn out, tedious thing that was nearly difficult to listen to. With a final, violent hand motion, Thorin ended the song.

His hands still hovered by the strings, but his head bowed, and his shoulders slumped.

Then, violent. His hands no longer lightly pushed past strings. These were plucked, harshly, almost. It hurt to listen to. His motions were no longer smooth, they no longer brushed past strings. They jerked, fiercely. These were motions one might see in battle, swift, decisive, strong. The notes were swift, as well, never quite matching up with the others in a way that was not pleasant to the ear.

Silence, now. Slowly, Thorin began to play with one hand, the other coiled in his lap. The tune was monotonous, dragging on for what could have been forever, at least to him. Gradually he added his other hand, playing deep notes.

A melody began to emerge, akin to the first, but different in a way that was not identifiable. It seemed more . . . weary.

The song ended, then. Not on a happy note, but perhaps a hopeful note. As the final sounds drifted away, Thorin allowed his hands to rest in his lap, his fingers feeling strange after the unaccustomed exercise.

Thorin leaned his head back, allowing his hands to still in his lap. They were no longer shaking. His heart was steady, beating a reassuring rhythm that pulsed up his spine. He had forgotten this.

Music was ingrained into the culture of dwarves. It went with them on walks, as they mined gems and stone from mountains, as they danced. Dwalin never went anywhere without his fiddle. Bofur had had his pipe flute since he could move his fingers. Thorin's sister, Dís, was able to play the harp as well. Whenever she was able to visit the tavern in the Blue Mountains, she would often play some simple tunes on the old, run down harp that was pushed into the corner. As it was made for men, though, her arms were often too short to reach all the strings that she wanted. It irked her to no end. Thorin and Dwalin found it absolutely hilarious, of course.

Thorin himself had used music to drive away fears and doubts, especially when his Grandfather had begun to yield to the dragon sickness. His harp had been a valuable resource, giving him something to express that he couldn't in front of anyone else. Oh, sure, the whole kingdom had been aware of his Grandfather's failings. The idea had been to go on as though nothing was happening.

That had been the hard part.

Before he could get lost in memories, Thorin leaned down, sagging against the harp and holding his head in one hand. It felt clammy.

A few deep breaths had cleared his throat, but his heart was still racing a bit. He could see perfectly well; his vision was no longer tinged crimson.

Gently setting the harp back, Thorin left the room, closing the wooden door gently behind him. Turning, he walked back down towards the balcony, where even now he could hear snores and grunts. A one sided smile flashed across his face. Rounding the corner, the king-in-exile looked at his band, those who had decided - foolishley, perhaps - to follow him.

Dori and Nori were sleeping with their backs propped up against a pillar, little Ori laying across their laps. Thorin was glad to see that the two older brothers were putting aside their quarrels, for one night at least. Near to them Bofur was stretched out on his side, one arm thrown across Nori's leg. Bombur was next to his brother, his clasped hands resting on his ample belly. Bifur lay with his back to Bombur's side, laying his head back onto his young nephew's shoulder. Glóin was sleeping back to back with his older brother, their snores rocking them both back and forth. Fíli and Kíli were flopped about the feet of Bombur, using his feet as impromptu pillows. Balin and Dwalin slept on either sides of a pillar, one nearest Thorin.

Well, that was thirteen. The hobbit was curled at Bofur's feet, looking quite comfy in his sleep.

Well, they were all safe.

Now, Thorin just had to pray that he could keep them all that way.

That will be the hard part.

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**I have had this in my mind for quite some time. Thanks to everyone who read this. I appreciate the time that you took to view my work.**

**As I know nothing about stringed instruments (I held a guitar once) I apologize if I got anything wrong. Listening to harp music while writing greatly helped. **

**I normally prefer a more flowing style of writing, but with this I tried for a more generic style.**

**Did it work? I have no idea.**


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